War Year

  With a brand-new uniform, I felt like a human being again. It was ten minutes to six—1750 if you want to get technical—so I gathered up my comic books and went off to wait for the club to open.

  I waited about half an hour—nothing good ever starts on time in the army—and this rough-looking master sergeant walked up to unlock the place.

  “Ain’t none of you guys comin’ in here without you got yer canteen, yer pistol belt, yer first-aid pack, and yer steel pot. So jus’ high-tail it back to yer billet an’ get straight.

  “What you gonna do if ol’ Charlie, he decides to hit tonight while yer in there gettin’ drunk? You gonna stroll back t’yer billet and get yer stuff? No, you ain’t. You gonna carry it with you all the time.

  “And soljer, get them sleeves rolled down. Ev’y day at 1700 you gotta roll yer sleeves down cuz that’s when the skeeters come out. One o’ them malaria skeeters bites you and yer gonna wish you had that sleeve down.

  “Them comic books ain’t gonna keep the frags outa yer head, soljer. Go on back and getcher stuff.”

  I went back to the billet, feeling kind of stupid, and got out my stuff. I fastened the first-aid packet and the canteen to the pistol belt, rolled it all up and stuffed it in the steel pot. After all, he didn’t say we had to wear the junk.

  The beer was fairly cool. Somebody had managed to get some ice. The club was just a shack, but they actually had a juke box. I listened to the music for a while, reading my comics. Then a guy sat down across from me, dropping his helmet on the concrete floor with a loud clatter. “You’re a new guy too, aren’t ya?” he asked.

  “Sure… how can you tell?”

  “Take a look around. We’re the only ones in here carryin’ this shit around.” He gave the helmet a kick. “They say this is the safest place in the whole fuckin’ Central Highlands.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear.”

  “Yeah.” He stuck out his hand. “Willy Horowitz.”

  “Farmer, John Farmer. Just come in today?”

  “Yeah, same plane as you, I think.” He sucked down about half the can of beer. “What you do, back in the world?”

  “Nothin’ much. Just got out of school last June. Pumped gas for a few months, then got a job typing at the courthouse in Enid, Oklahoma.”

  “Didn’t wanta go to college?”

  “Thought about it—didn’t have the grades to get a scholarship, though. Said the hell with it. How ’bout you?”

  “I went for a year. City College, New York—guess I partied too much, flunked chemistry and got kicked out, for half a year, anyhow. Plenty of time to get drafted—you didn’t join up, did you?”

  “Hell, no. All I did was turn nineteen.”

  “Where’d you do Basic?”

  “Fort Leonard Wood. That’s in—”

  “Yeah, I know, Missouri. Asshole of the world. I got my Engineer training there.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Bet we were there about the same time.”

  “Our cycle got out the end of December.”

  “Same here—what company?”

  “Bravo.”

  “How ’bout that—I was in Charlie. We were practically next-door neighbors.”

  “I’ll drink to that… hell, I’ll drink to anything.” He crunched the beer can double and stood up. “Ready for another?”

  “Yeah—here.” I pushed a dollar at him.

  “Shit, keep it. I been playin’ poker, got more damn MPC’s than I know what to do with.”

  MPC’s, Military Payment Certificates, were what everybody used for money in Vietnam. They had different colored bills for tens, fives, and ones, then little bills like Monopoly money instead of coins. You could buy slugs at the bar, to operate the juke box.

  “Budweiser OK?” He had two cans in each hand, set them down in the middle of the table.

  “Sure.” I slid one over and sipped it. “How do you like it so far?”

  “Like it?”

  “The war, Vietnam.”

  “Shit.” He took out a cigarette and tapped it on his thumbnail. “It wouldn’t be so bad … you know, army-wise. They don’t hassle you like they did Stateside—but God, that rocket attack—were you in Cam Ranh Bay when—”

  “Yeah, that was bad.”

  “Bad … scared me shitless. Wonder how often, how much of that shit we’re gonna get.”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Guy told me that was just a picnic compared to the real thing.”

  “Yeah, but ya never know. Some guys like to act hard-core, scare the shit out of ya.”

  “Guess we just wait and see.”

  “Yeah.” He looked at his watch. “Look, there’s a movie on in a few minutes, outside by the billet… wanna go check it out?”

  “Sure.” We got a good supply of beer and split.

  It was pitch dark on the way over, and I managed to step into a ditch. They had these three-foot-deep ditches all over the area; you’re supposed to dive into one when the shooting starts. I turned my ankle and limped the rest of the way to the movie.

  It was one of those Italian-made Westerns, about some guys blowing up a bridge. Pretty good.

  When they turned off the movie it was almost pitch-black—just a little bit of starlight—but we had pretty much figured out where the ditches were. Managed to get back to our bunks without breaking my neck.

  It had gotten right cool and I didn’t have any trouble falling asleep. But I don’t think I slept more than a few minutes when some guy pulled on my leg, nearly yanking me out of bed.

  “Incoming! We got incoming!” Then I could hear the faint crump—crump, just like it’d been in Cam Ranh Bay a few days before. I jumped down, scooped my steel pot off the floor, and ran for the door. It was a mess, everybody trying to get out at once. I finally got outside and ran for the nearest ditch. Cut my bare foot on a rock but hardly felt it. I jumped into the ditch and laid down lengthways.

  You could hear the rockets whistling in, but you couldn’t see them. The explosions got louder and louder. My throat got dry and I started shaking.

  Then a bright blue flash and the ground jumped, and a noise like somebody slapped your ear with a baseball bat. It must have been real close; you could smell the smoke and hear clods of dirt falling out of the sky.

  Someone down at the end of the ditch yelled, “Medic! Jesus Christ—Medic! I been hit!” The medic ran by me, out of the ditch, crouched low. Another round whistled in and the medic jumped in the ditch, but it landed pretty far away. He got back out and ran down to the wounded guy. Watching him, I decided there were worse things than being a combat engineer.

  “Pass it down!” The guy on my left handed me an M-16. I gave it to the next guy and told him to pass it down. I passed about twenty of them and then got one for myself. It wasn’t loaded. I remembered the sergeant saying he’d bring ammo if there was going to be trouble. But I wondered whether he’d actually come from wherever he was, with rockets dropping all around. I knew I wouldn’t.

  The attack lasted about fifteen minutes. None of the other rounds came as close as that one. They told us to stay in the ditch—there could be another attack any time. That was all right with me at first—I felt pretty safe where I was—but after a while I was ready to get out and take my chances. I was just wearing the shorts I slept in, and it was cold. I was also grimy from lying in the ditch and my foot throbbed where I’d cut it on the rock.

  We must have laid there for hours. Finally they told us to get out and turn in the guns. I went and washed off my foot. It didn’t look bad, but it sure hurt like the dickens. I found the medic and he bandaged it for me.

  About dawn they said we could turn in. They said we could have two extra hours of sack time—get up at 0800—and acted like they were doing us a favor. I could have used two extra days, but I was too tired to complain. My head hit the pillow and I was out.

  THREE

  I thought I’d been dirty before, but the next morning when they rolled us out of bed, I was caked and
crawly-feeling with red grime. Sleeping on it kind of grinds it in.

  Decided to skip breakfast and take a shower, but the water was all gone by the time I got there. So I got dressed and headed for the chow hall. The food was all gone, of course. I got a cup of coffee that tasted like diesel fuel. It woke me up a little, but I still felt like I’d had only two hours’ sleep after cowering in a ditch all night.

  Refilled my canteen cup with coffee and dumped enough sugar in it to kill the taste, then carried it back to our billet. It was 0845; we didn’t have to report for training until 0900.

  I sat on a pile of sandbags and watched the people mill around. There was a line of about fifty guys doing a police call, walking in a straight line picking up cigarette butts and such. They seemed more interested in it than usual (usually you just walk along looking at the ground, picking up something when you think someone’s watching). A couple of them were really excited, showing off their finds to each other. What’s so interesting about a cigarette butt?

  The coffee was making me sick, so I tossed out the last half-cup of it. Where it splashed, I saw a glistening piece of metal.

  That’s what they were picking up. I brushed the dust off the thing and looked at it. Everybody’d talked about shrapnel in Basic—it’s the stuff that causes the most casualties—but this was the first actual piece of it that I’d ever seen. It was a chunk of lead about an inch square with razor-sharp edges. I handled it carefully, but it still made a little nick on my finger. It looked like it could go right through a person without slowing down.

  Here in ’Nam they called them “frags” instead of shrapnel. That’s what they were—fragments—like when an artillery shell goes off, the explosive inside shatters the lead casing into hundreds of frags.

  This one must have been one of the frags that had been whistling over my head last night. I wrapped it up in a scrap of paper and put it in my shirt pocket.

  They were lining up in front of the billet, so I walked over to join in the fun.

  “Awright, listen up.” Old Sergeant O’Donnell stepped in front with a clipboard in his hand. “Today yer lucky. We just gotta go across the street for half-a-day’s training. I know you guys didn’t get much sleep last night. Tough shit. Neither did I. Anybody falls asleep, he goes on KP tomorrow morning.” Some of the guys looked like they couldn’t stay awake in the middle of a rock band.

  We marched more or less in step to a bunch of wooden benches across the street. Whoever was supposed to teach us hadn’t showed up yet—probably getting some sleep!—so I just sat down and smoked to stay awake.

  “Why the fuck did we have to get a master sergeant?” Willy slumped down next to me on the bench and lit a cigarette. “He’s gonna be nothin’ but trouble.”

  “Maybe every bunch has to have one.”

  “Fuck, no—billet next to ours has a corporal in charge.”

  The sergeant came back with a captain walking in front of him. O’Donnell looked at us flopped around on the benches and yelled, “Tench-hut, goddammit!” We came to attention in a creaky sort of way.

  “At ease, men.” The captain waved a hand in our general direction. “Sit down. Smoke if you want to.

  “I’m Captain Price, Artillery, here to tell you how the army uses artillery to support the infantry in the field. Any artillery boys in the crowd?” A couple of hands went up. “Well, you two might just as well close your eyes and get some sleep—if you don’t know everything I’m tellin’ these guys, and more besides, your ass is grass anyhow.

  “You were supposed to get instruction on the .45 automatic this morning, from Sergeant Something-or-other. But one of the rocket rounds last night hit the shed where we keep all the demonstration .45’s—so you’re just gonna have to learn about that on your own, if you get issued a .45. Doesn’t make any difference to me one way or the other, of course, except that you’ll get off two hours earlier, and I had to get up two hours earlier to give you my talk. I know that just breaks you up.” Even Willy chuckled. Captain Price seemed to be all right, for an officer.

  “Artillery comes in two varieties, ours and theirs. Either one can kill you dead. All you have to do is be standing in a spot where a frag wants to go.

  “Jungle warfare’s almost always close range. You grunts, you infantrymen, are going to have Charlie so close you’ll be able to smell his BO.” People laughed. “I’m not kidding! And even when he’s that close, you’ll be having artillery dropped in on him, and be damned glad it’s there, too. Otherwise, he might be in your foxhole with a knife.

  “When it’s coming down right in front of you like that, just keep your head down and you’ll be OK. Most of these rounds could fall a few meters away; if you’re scrunched down in a foxhole you won’t get hurt.

  “Of course, maybe one time in a hundred, in a thousand, that round’s gonna fall short and land right in your lap. Don’t waste time worryin’ about that. If it happens, you won’t feel a thing.

  “Now, we have several kinds of artillery, broken down according to how big around the shell is. Biggest one is the 8-incher…”

  He went on for about an hour, telling about the different kinds of artillery, their “kill radius,” how fast they can shoot, and such. I don’t think I remembered a tenth of it.

  We had a break for coffee and then piled onto an open truck. It took us about a mile, to Camp Enari’s perimeter. We got off and stood around while Captain Price talked into a hand radio, getting clearance to drop a few shells into the valley below us.

  “Now these 105’s will be about the smallest rounds you’ll see in combat, not counting the mortars. First comes the smoke round—watch!”

  There was a ragged, rustling sound, then a distant pop (the sound of the gun catching up with the shell), and a louder pop, then a puff of white smoke in the jungle below.

  “Drop fifty and fire three HE,” the captain said into the microphone. I could remember that meant to crank the gun down so it would aim fifty meters closer, and shoot three HE, high explosive, rounds.

  “Now look at that little clearing down there.” The rustle was much louder than before, followed by pop-pop-pop, and the clearing exploded in three fountains of dirt and gray smoke. The noise of the explosions was loud rolling thunder.

  “Well, that’s the show, boys. Wish you could see more, but we can’t spare the ammunition.” He got into his jeep. “Want a ride back, Sergeant?” Our truck had already left.

  “Yes, sir—Specialist, you march these people back to the billet.” They left in a cloud of dust.

  “All right, quit bitchin’.” The guy was a specialist fourth class, a Spec/4; not quite a sergeant. “At least that’s all we’re gonna do today. We can go back and hit the sack.”

  “You ain’t gonna make us march, are ya, Specialist?” That was Willy.

  “Hell, no. We’ll just walk down to the main road and see if we can catch a ride—but fer Chrissake don’t forget to salute everything that moves!”

  It was a couple of blocks to the road. We stood there for half an hour (long enough to walk it, actually), breathing dust and saluting every couple of minutes, until an empty dump truck pulled up and hauled us to the Admin area.

  The specialist advised us to fade out of sight; there was bound to be somebody cruising around looking for detail men. ’Most everybody hiked up to the PX, but I was too tired. Decided to take my chances and headed straight for the sack. It took me about three seconds to fall asleep.

  “What the fuck do y’think yer doin’, soljer?” I looked up bleary-eyed and saw three stripes. Buck-sergeant.

  “Just gettin’ a little shut-eye, Sarge. Training’s over for the day.”

  “Trainin’ might be over, but work ain’t over. Yer on my sandbag detail.”

  “I’m not even in your platoon, Sarge.”

  “What, you givin’ me lip, soljer? Wanna see the captain?”

  I knew when I was licked. I sat up and tried to shake the sleep out of my head. “Where’s your fuckin’ detail???
?

  “That’s more like it. Follow me.” We walked out of the billet into the blazing sun. Four men with their shirts off were sitting on a pile of sandbags.

  “Awright, goddammit, get to work. Nobody leaves ’til you fill ev’ry fuckin’ one of those bags.”

  I took off my own shirt and joined the group. The sergeant walked off, and a wiry little colored guy handed me a gray burlap sack. Seemed like every other guy in Vietnam was Negro.

  “Here, you hold for a while. I’ll dig.”

  “Suits.” I held the bag open and he dumped a shovelful of dirt into it. “How’d you get on this detail?”

  “Same as these other guys. We got some Cokes at the Class-Six store and came back to drink ’em—found a nice cool bunker, then that asshole of a buck-sergeant found us.”

  “Yeah,” said another guy with an Alabama drawl. “This fuckin’ army—we gotta spend all day fillin’ sandbags we’ll never get t’use.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We might be behind ’em tonight.”

  “Might. Might not. How’d he get aholt of you?”

  “Just tryin’ to get some sleep.”

  The Alabama boy kicked his shovel in deep and leaned on it. “This goddamn fuckin’ army. Charlie keeps ya awake all night and the fuckin’ sergeants won’t let ya catch up in the day.”

  It went on like that for several hours. We wound up putting empty sandbags inside the ones we were filling—otherwise we never would’ve gotten through. Guess it was about four when we put the shovels back in a shed and went our separate ways. I was going to hide somewhere and catch a nap, but first I checked the billet. There were a dozen guys snoring away inside, so I said the hell with it and went to my bunk and flopped. I didn’t even wake up for chow.